


Take a Chance

by twoshipsdrifting



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-08-11 07:43:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7882603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twoshipsdrifting/pseuds/twoshipsdrifting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry and Louis meet in what is probably the most awkward way they can - singing a duet in the loo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take a Chance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [andreaversace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/andreaversace/gifts).



> So this didn't really fill much of the original prompt, for which I'm sorry I don't know much about the festival or music requested so I just tried to keep it simple and fluffy.  
> I hope you still enjoy!
> 
> My beta is a rock star, ty Love!!

Harry’s got a bit of a headache pounding across the bridge of his nose. It almost seems to pulse in a strange cadence with his heart. Still, he’s due to perform in about twenty minutes and he doesn’t really have time to worry about it.

He heads for the loo, halfheartedly humming something he heard ages ago and can’t fully remember.  Not wanting any awkward interactions at the urinals he ducks into a stall instead.  He’s just unzipped when the door bangs open again–a high voice filling the tiled room.

“–you’re the one thing, I can’t get enough of…”

Harry’s lips curl up. The voice continues and Harry assumes he thinks he’s alone.

“Because, I’ve had the time of my life–”

“No, I’ve never felt this way before,” Harry sings on a whim.

There’s a pause, quiet other than a wet mop slapping against the floor. They both stay silent. 

 

Harry curses himself silently. He can’t do this with someone out there listening to him.

“Yes I swear, it’s the truth,” he continues, easing his dick out. “And I owe it all to you.” Harry pauses again, wondering if he’s really gonna have to sing the rest of the song by himself just so he can piss.  
Maybe he can syncopate his stream with the beat.

“With my body and soul,” the voice continues– _finally,_ Harry thinks– “I want you more than you’ll ever know.”

“So we’ll just let it go,” they sing together, “don’t be afraid to lose control.”

Harry eventually realizes the absurdity of the situation, smiling around the words as he finally releases the hold on his bladder.

His phone starts vibrating in his back pocket and Harry debates before dropping off singing and trying to coordinate digging it out. For his efforts, he manages to pee on his own boot, cursing as he nearly loses his grip on his phone as well.

“Oh, fuck _off_ ,” he snaps, one hand swiping across his screen impatiently. He shoves his phone back in his pocket with one hand, only then realizing the singing has stopped.

“No,” he says next, struggling to tuck himself back in his pants. “I didn’t mean you!” he calls out.

 

He turns too quickly, slipping in the puddle of his pee and crashing to the floor.  Harry lays there for precisely two seconds before he realizes something wet is seeping into the leg of his pants.  He rushes to his feet, skidding again but managing to push himself into the wall and stay vertical.

“Fuck,” he mutters, struggling with the latch on the stall door and slamming it open to find an empty room.

The mop bucket is still there and everything, there’s just no one to accompany it. Harry sighs and grabs the mop to clean up his mess before washing his hands thoroughly.

Luckily–or maybe unluckily because he feels like he should apologize–there’s no one outside the loo, either.

It’s starting to get more crowded in the pub and Harry supposes he should head to whatever back room they have set up for him to wait in. It’s not exactly glamorous being an ex-X Factor contestant, but at least he’s getting gigs. That’s something.

At least his jeans are black so no one will notice one leg is damp, more like.

…

The gig goes fine.  It isn’t great. It isn’t going to get him signed. But it’s fine. It’s a check. And, Harry reminds himself, it’s more than a lot of people are getting.

The only problem is he’s been waiting at the bar for nearly twenty minutes trying to get a bottle of water. There’s two bartenders, both unfairly attractive, and they’re both steadfastly ignoring him.

The place isn’t _that_ busy.

_Honestly,_ Harry thinks.

 

He sighs before planting both palms on the bar and leaning forward. “Can I get some service?” he demands loudly.

The bartender closest to him, hair sweeping across his forehead, shoots him an absolutely filthy glare.  
Harry actually draws back under the force of it.

“Going on break,” he says; clearly not to Harry.  
The other bartender nods, looking to Harry for a split second.

It’s another three minutes before he approaches. Harry’s talked himself out of just leaving four times already.

“What.”

Harry waits a beat, but he doesn’t say anything else.

“Uhm,” Harry manages, suddenly feeling small and quite embarrassed. “Water?”

The bartender snorts at him. He actually snorts.

Harry chews the inside of his cheek.

He’s not supposed to feel like this anymore, is the thing. He’s supposed to be cool and collected. He’s supposed to have _star quality_ or whatever.

Whatever it even is, Harry doesn’t feel it now.

Nevertheless, the bartender turns and bends down to open a small fridge. He places the bottle in front of Harry, one hand on his hip as he waits.  
Harry sort of wishes the bartender was ignoring him again.

“How much?”

“On the house,” the bartender says, hand still on hip.

“Oh,” Harry lets out, sounding as confused as he is. “Uh…okay?”

The bartender is still staring at him.

Harry is pretty sure he can see a woman across the bar getting angry as she waits.

“Um,” Harry says. “Did you want something else?”

“What,” the bartender laughs unkindly, “an autograph?” He rolls his eyes.

 

Harry feels his cheeks heat. Still, he does his best to shake it off, twisting the cap off his bottle. He’s supposed to talk with people and schmooze a bit.

_Charming_ , he thinks. _Cool._

That’s who he is. He was made for this. He just has to remind himself.

Harry takes a long swallow of water before pulling himself onto a stool.

“You were brilliant,” a voice to his left says.

He pastes on a smile before turning to look at her.

_Charming_ , he thinks again, more firmly. _Cool_.

 

It’s actually quite easy talking with the girl and her friend and Harry finds himself laughing without forcing it. Until, that is, what feels like an entire drink spills down his arm.  
Harry jumps off his stool, nearly falling for the second time that night. He turns sharply back towards the bar. The first bartender, the glare-y one is all but smirking at him. Harry feels a rare swell of anger.

“Sorry,” he says, voice lilting, “these glasses just get so slippery.” Then he shrugs.

“Listen–”

“What?” he shoots back before Harry’s even managed to think of his next word. “We can’t all be famous singers, mate. Should I say famous?” He purses his lips quickly, as if he’s really thinking about it. “Maybe not,” he decides. “But, hey, we _can_ all be shite at our jobs.”

 

Harry is flummoxed. He’s thunderstruck.

Sure, okay, he didn’t win. It had been a long shot anyway. But he’d finished Top 5. He had potential. And star quality. He was going to make it.

He realizes, on an abstract level, that this is clearly the boy he’d offended earlier. The one that had been mopping. It has to be him.

Still–Harry’s heart feels a bit broken. Not exactly fun having your failures thrown in your face. And being called shite by someone that doesn’t even know you.

Harry takes a moment to think. He has two options here: he can sink down to this bartender’s level, say _you’re right mate, we can’t all be singers_ , or he can be the better person.

Neither option really appeals. He’ll feel crap either way.  It’s probably his worst quality that he can’t deal with people not liking him. He knows he can’t be liked by every person on the planet, but he still has to try his hardest.

“I’m sorry you thought the show was shite,” he says finally. “Maybe next time I’ll edit the set list.”

The bartender looks mutinous, mouth opening. Harry rushes the rest out, unable to stop smiling.

“Add ( _I’ve Had) the Time of my Life_.”

The bartender snaps his mouth closed, spots of color appearing high on his cheeks.

“Fuck you,” he says, whipping out a towel and mopping at the bar before spinning away.

“It’s a duet though,” Harry calls after him.

The bartender shoots a glare over his shoulder, as intense as it is short. Harry just smiles through it, refusing to be moved again. He looks back to the girls to find they’ve moved on and Harry sighs to himself.

 

“Mr Styles,” a voice rushes out, a hand landing on his shoulder, “I am so sorry about that. Can I get you a towel?”

Harry looks to see the manager he spoke with earlier towering over him, eyebrows torn between concerned and angry.

“It’s fine–”

“I saw the whole thing on the cameras and it is certainly _not_ fine.”

Unexplainably, Harry’s stomach drops.

“No, really,” he insists, “just some pranks–”

“It’s unacceptable.”

Harry chews on his lip a short moment, wondering if he should argue further.

“If you’re all right,” the manager continues, Harry thinks his name is Paul, “I’ll take care of this.”

He says _this_ like he’s referring to gum on his shoe. Or something worse.

“Louis!” Paul bellows, “Office! Now!”

Louis and the other bartender share a look before fist bumping.  
Harry wonders how often this happens.

“You come too,” Paul says. “He’ll apologize.”

Harry’s sure it’s a request, but it doesn’t really feel that way.

 

Paul gestures Harry forward and Harry assumes Louis is following them. He doesn’t turn to check. Ironically enough, they head back toward the loos, turning left instead of right.

“Mr Styles,” Paul says cordially, “please have a seat.”

There’s a total of three chairs in the room, two in front of a desk staggering under the weight of an ancient computer and boxes of beer, and one behind. Of the two chairs in front of the desk, only one is empty.

Paul rounds the desk and takes his chair as well. Louis remains standing in the doorway, Harry assumes. It’s uncomfortable enough that once again, he doesn’t check.

“Feel free to start explaining,” Paul continues.

Harry lifts a hand to his mouth, nibbling on his thumbnail.

“The glass slipped,” Louis says. He sounds bored.

“You all but threw the drink,” Paul says. He flops a hand toward three monitors to their right. “Shall we watch together?”

Louis doesn’t say anything to that.

 

“It’s something with you every damn week, Tomlinson,” Paul says. “If you’re not late you’re getting complaints–”

“Half the patrons are drunks,” Louis cuts in.

“Have you gone a single shift without a complaint?”

“Who else is gonna work the hours, Paul?”

“I’ll hire a monkey.”

Harry coughs out a laugh. There’s a long beat of silence in response.

“Oh,” he says, tempted to tug on his collar, “was that not a joke?”

“He didn’t even complain,” Louis points out. He’s rallying rather well, all things considered.

“Probably because he feels sorry for me,” Paul says dryly. He exhales deeply, then he looks to Harry.

“Would you like to complain, officially?”

“Erm, no?”

Louis makes an ugly noise. “Don’t do me any favours.” 

“Christ,” Harry exclaims, turning to look at him. “Are you _trying_ to get fired?”

“Paul won’t fire me. Not over some popstar reject that even Simon Cowell couldn’t make famous.”

Harry flinches, looking down to his lap.

“Weren’t you the one who asked me to book him?” Paul asks.

Louis makes a terrible, squeaking noise. “I thought he would bring in some customers,” Louis spits out. “Which he didn’t!”

“He did,” Paul points out idly. Harry shoots him a grateful smile.

“Well I–”

“Listen,” it’s Harry’s turn to cut him off. He sighs before pushing out of his chair. He turns to face Louis again.

“I wasn’t telling you to fuck off,” he explains. “I was telling my phone to fuck off.” _And peeing on my shoe_ , he doesn’t add. “You have a lovely voice,” he tells Louis. “Very unique.”

Inexplicably, Louis is blushing again.

“I would like to hear that lovely voice apologize. Personally,” Paul says.

 

“Really?” Louis asks, very quietly.

It’s only meant for Harry.

“Really,” Harry assures him. “I’d duet with you any time.”

Louis smiles, looking down.

“I’m sorry I threw a drink on you.”

“And?” Harry prompts.

“For saying you were shite,” Louis adds.

“I appreciate that,” Harry says.

“I’m sorry,” Louis repeats.  

 

“Great,” Paul says, clapping his hands together. “Now get out of here.”

“But my shift–”

“No,” Paul says. “And Malik gets to keep the tips from tonight.”

Louis looks angry for a short moment before shrugging. “Whatever you say, Paul.”

“Exactly. Out.”

Louis rolls his eyes and huffs out a breath but he still does as he’s told.

“Thanks for stopping by Mr Styles,” Paul adds. “And for not kicking up a fuss.”

“Call me Harry, please.”

“Any time you want to come back,” Paul says, “door’s open.”

“I appreciate that,” Harry says, crossing back to Paul and shaking his hand.

“He’s a good kid,” Paul says, dropping Harry’s hand. “I’d really hate to let him go.”

“Not a problem,” Harry says, shooting him a smile.

 

He feels strangely exhilarated leaving Paul’s office. Even more so when he sees Louis waiting.

“So, I’m not fired.”

Harry laughs. “You know you’re not.”

Louis smiles. “Yeah.” He takes a breath, rocking up onto his toes and then back onto his heels. “Uh, my evening just freed up,” he says.

“I’m sorry,” Harry smiles, “are you going from throwing drinks on me to hitting on me?”

“One drink,” Louis corrects. “You know you love it.”

“It’s better than pee.”

Louis laughs, loudly. “Sorry?”

“Nothing,” Harry chokes out, his face heating this time.

“You’re a kinky one, Harold.”

“No,” Harry protests, “I, uh, fell.”

“You’re a mess tonight,” Louis teases.

“Because of you,” Harry accuses.

Louis looks pleased at this information and Harry feels like he’s just given something away.

“Come shower at mine,” Louis says then.

It’s simultaneously the worst and best idea he’s ever heard.

“Smooth,” Harry hedges.

“You’ve got piss on your leg, Mr Styles. Just trying to help out.”

Louis smirks before walking past him. Harry has little choice but to follow.

…

Louis’ flat is a short walk from the pub and Harry’s a bit loath to admit that he’s surprised when Louis actually offers him the shower. Maybe he shouldn’t be so surprised, though, because when he comes out there aren’t any clothes to put on, just a towel. Harry wraps it around his waist, noting that it doesn’t even reach his knees.

He laughs once, wondering what his life has become tonight. The flat is small but it’s cosy, smelling faintly of weed with pictures haphazardly on every wall. Louis is on the couch, pausing the telly when he sees Harry.

“Keeping me naked for any specific purpose?”

Louis arches an eyebrow. “Don’t think our clothes will fit you,” he sniffs. His expression softens after a moment. “Your clothes are in the wash, Harold.”

“Thank you.”

“Well, you told me I had a lovely voice,” Louis says next, blasé. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“You do have a lovely voice,” Harry says.

“Glad someone thinks so.” He exhales. “I really am sorry for what I said.”

“It’s alright.”

 

“Paul was telling the truth,” Louis says. “I asked him to book you. Quite fancy you, actually.”

“I’m flattered.”

“Interested?” Louis asks. “Or flattered?”

Harry smiles. “Both.”

Louis smiles back at him.

“Good,” he says, patting the couch. “Let’s watch a movie.”

Harry sits, amused when Louis drops his feet into his lap. Louis tosses him an afghan and Harry uses it halfheartedly, covering most of his stomach and Louis’ feet.

“Comfortable?” Louis asks. It sounds like he really wants to know.

“Yeah,” Harry hums, giving Louis’ ankle a squeeze before dropping his hand again.

In the end, Harry stays the night. He borrows a pair of pants and shares Louis’ bed.

...

When Harry wakes, Louis’ roommate is already in the kitchen. Of course, it’s the second bartender from last night.

He raises a brow at Harry but doesn’t say anything.

“’M Harry.”

“I know.”

“You’re up early,” Harry offers after a stilted beat.

“Haven’t been to sleep yet.”

“Oh.”

Louis’ roommate sighs. “Did you fuck him?”

“No,” Harry admits, chest warming. “We slept.”

“Don’t break his heart,” Louis’ roommate says darkly.

“I won’t,” Harry frowns. It sounds more like a question.

“Whatever.” He doesn’t say anything more to Harry, leaving the kitchen and, Harry assumes, slamming the door of his own room.

 

Harry heads back to Louis’ room, he’s half starved.

“Lou,” Harry says, nudging him.

Louis groans, other than that he doesn’t reply.

“C’mon,” Harry whines, “I’m hungry.”

“Sleep,” Louis tells him.

“Louuuuuu.” Harry whines louder. He nudges him again. “Where are my clothes?”

“Kitchen,” Louis mumbles. He drags a pillow over his face.

Frowning, Harry gives up. Maybe there’s something in the fridge he can have.

 

There is nothing in the fridge.

Harry’s standing staring at it, fingers tucked in his pocket just because. He’ll need a shirt, then.

 

Harry’s quick in the market. He knows the rules by now. Sure, it’s flattering when people stop him. And amazing, most of the time.

But this morning Harry doesn’t feel like dealing with it. He wants to get back to Louis’ flat. Partly so he’s there before Louis wakes up and partly because he left the door unlocked and that’s probably not cool . _It’s definitely not cool_ , Harry thinks, chewing his lip as he hurries back up the sidewalk.

When he gets in the telly is playing so loudly he can’t even hear himself close the door.

“Die, die, die!” Louis is yelling, explosions occurring almost in time.

Harry rounds the corner to see Louis and his roommate sitting on the couch, Louis leaning forward as he yells animatedly. His roommate looks bored with it, controller lax in his hands.

“Uhm,” Harry says.

Neither of them hear him. Unsure what to do, Harry slowly shuffles forward. “Uhm,” he says again.

 

Louis’ roommate notices him first, pausing the game. The silence is sharp in the flat, Louis jerking to look at his roommate, “Zayn,” he snaps, “what the fuck?”

Zayn, apparently, jerks his chin towards Harry. Louis’ eyes get very big very quickly.

“I was gonna make breakfast?” Harry offers.

“Thank _fuck_ ,” Zayn says with feeling. “I’m going back to bed.”

He drops his controller without another word, pushing himself off the couch and shuffling towards the hall.  
Louis coughs once, hurriedly fixing his hair as Harry glances back to him. He hops up before crossing his arms over his chest.

“What are you making me, then?”

 

Harry doesn’t respond immediately, tempted to smile.

“I’m sorry you woke up before I got back.”

Louis huffs at that, rolling his eyes. “Early riser, me,” he says. “Would have been up with or without you.”

“Still,” Harry says, “you must have thought–”

“Nothing,” Louis says in a rush. “Must have thought nothing. You spent the night. Because your clothes weren’t dry.” He clears his throat, fingers tapping at the inside of his elbow.

Harry waits several moments.

“Breakfast?” he asks.

“Starved.” Louis nods.

 

Harry turns for the kitchen without another word, trying to shake the guilt still clinging to him. It wasn’t like he meant to have Louis wake up without him. And it seemed fine now anyway. He’d just have to make Louis such a great breakfast that he forgot all about it.

“Tea?”

“Obviously,” Louis says.

Harry sets about making the tea before anything else.

“What are you making me?”

“Nothing fancy,” Harry admits. “I was in a hurry.”

“I don’t cook,” Louis says then. “If not for you I’d have starved this morning.”

Harry really can’t tell if he’s kidding or not. Still, he wonders when he’d be able to read Louis well enough to know. Would it take days? Hours?

“My hero,” Louis adds, making Harry flush.

 

They eat on the couch, nearly a foot of space between them.

“Alright?” Harry asks, setting his plate on the coffee table. Louis hums.

“Awfully quiet,” Harry prods after another moment.

“Just,” Louis sighs, “what are we doing here, Harry?”

“I thought we were getting to know each other.”

“It’s not like I’m a blushing maid over here,” Louis says, running a hand through his hair. “But I also feel like I don’t just want to be another…night for you. I guess.”

“Louis, I like you a lot,” Harry starts. “And I don’t want to do anything you don’t want to do. I did want to exchange numbers, though. Maybe.”

Louis narrows his eyes. “Not just to sleep with me?” he checks.

Harry offers his most honest smile. “Not just to sleep with you,” he confirms.

“Okay,” Louis agrees softly. “Yeah.”

…

It doesn’t take long for Harry to realize that he’s the needy one in this relationship. If it is a relationship.  
He supposes for now they’re just friends.

Harry’s still doing a couple gigs a week but he’s starting to feel desperation creeping up his spine. He has to find a way to keep momentum so when his X Factor contract is up, someone will actually want to sign him.

“Why the long face?” Louis asks him, nudging him with a bare toe.

Harry sighs. “You already know.”

“Babe,” Louis sighs, “it’s gonna happen for you, I know it is.”

“I wish I believed like you and Mum,” Harry sighs.

“We’ll believe enough for you.”

Harry only sighs again, sagging back.

They still haven’t kissed. It’s been almost three weeks and nothing has happened.

Harry wonders if Louis is tired of him and just feels bad for him now. From one failure to another in a matter of moments. Not a good night for Harry, apparently.

“You really think so?”

Louis rolls his eyes at Harry before smiling. “Yes, babe, I really do.”

 

“You don’t just feel bad for me?” Harry wheedles.

Louis scoffs. “Feel bad? For you?”  
He lunges to tickle Harry’s ribs. Harry screams, trying to wriggle free.

“You finished top five,” Louis yells over his shrieking laughter, “you’re arguably famous across the entire UK, and make money singing at pubs and you want _me_ to feel sorry for _you_?”

“No,” Harry giggles, “please, Lou, no.”

Louis digs his fingers in one last time before straddling Harry and sitting up.

“Honestly Harold,” he sighs, “where has your confidence gone?”

“No one to coach me anymore,” Harry mumbles before he thinks better of it.

Louis pauses. “What?”

“Nothing,” Harry says, refusing to meet his eyes.

Louis sets his fingers to Harry’s ribs again. Harry can’t stop another shriek.

“Louis!”

“Tell me,” Louis demands, hands poised like claws mere inches from Harry’s tender stomach.

 

“It’s not like I’m that great, okay?” Harry huffs. “I didn’t win and I’m faking it every time I perform and you said you fancied me and we haven’t even kissed yet! You just like X Factor me.”

“Harry,” Louis says softly, expression scandalized.

“I didn’t mean that,” Harry says. “You obviously like me as a friend. Which I appreciate.”

“I like you a lot more than that,” Louis tells him. “I just know I’m not good enough for you.”

“You–what?” Harry demands.

Louis is still sitting on him and Harry feels a thousand times more awkward about it now.

“Don’t be daft, Harry,” Louis says, rolling his eyes again. “You’re clearly on your way up and I’m–well, I work in a pub for fuck’s sake.”

“So do I,” Harry points out. “Sort of.”

 

Louis pinches his ribs, much weaker than before.

“You know it isn’t the same.”

“But I like you.”

Harry can feel himself pouting. He only tries to stop for a moment.

“I like you too,” Louis says. “And I don’t want to hold you back.”

“You don’t,” Harry protests. “You make me so happy, Lou. Even if we’re only friends. You still make me happy.”

He sighs, tangling his hands with Louis’ in a moment of insane bravery.

“Feels selfish to ask for anything more, honestly.”

“You’re not selfish.”

 

“You’re like the sun,” Harry tells him. “I’ve met plenty of people here in London, especially since X Factor but I only want to spend my time with you. It’s probably a bit creepy, actually.”

“I’m like the sun?” Louis laughs. He fixes his fringe. “Alright, Hazza.”

“You are. You’re so bright and lovely and when I don’t see you during the day everything’s grey.”

Louis sobers. “We just met.”

“I know,” Harry agrees. “I know you don’t like me as much as I like you. ‘S alright.”

“You don’t know that.”

Harry squeezes Louis’ hands before letting them go. “‘S alright, Lou.”

 

Louis dips down again, quick as a lightning strike, and for a dizzying moment Harry thinks he’s going to be tickled again.

He gets kissed instead. Harry thinks he likes this much better.

By the time Zayn gets home, shuffling through the door with a cigarette behind one ear, Louis and Harry are tangled together on the couch. Zayn blinks at them once.

“Should I crash somewhere else?”

“Christ,” Louis laughs, “is it that obvious?”

“Bound to happen,” Zayn tells them.

“I feel like I should be offended,” Louis pouts at Harry. “Am I easy?”

Harry drops a kiss between his eyes to comfort him.

“Am _I_ easy?” he wonders.

“God,” Zayn groans, “why’re you already married?”

He turns and closes the door behind him without another word.

“I feel bad,” Harry says, “sort of.”

Louis arches a brow and smiles wickedly.

“Don’t.”

 

 

 

 


End file.
